The Arse
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: Sometimes, England thought that America loved England's arse more than he loved England himself.  A drabble/oneshot series about America, England, and England's arse.  USUK, of course.
1. Invitation

**TITLE: The Arse**

**RATING: T**

**PAIRING: US/UK**

**GENRE: Humor & Romance**

**DESCRIPTION: Sometimes, England thought that America loved England's arse more than he loved England himself.**

**LENGTH: Drabble/Oneshot Series.**

**POV: Always switching. :)**

**UPDATE: Every Friday.**

**THIS IS PASTAAAAAAA- OH, NO, IT'S A DISCLAIMER, SORRY: I own Arthur and Alfred shoes ... I own Arthur and Alfred rocks ... I own a Britannia Angel paper doll ... I own an Arthur t-shirt ... you'd think, by now, I'd own Arthur and Alfred themselves, but NO, it doesn't work that way. Copyright laws are cruel, and I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters.**

**A/N: I have three (very good) reasons for writing this drabble/oneshot series: first and foremost, to prove that US/UK is just as worthy a pairing as FrUK (if not more worthy) (but less worthy than FranglUS - Jayleen, are you reading this? xD); second, to practice different writing styles and POVs; and last but not least, because Arthur's arse is amazing and deserves to be written about extensively.**

**Now that that has been established, LET'S GET THIS THING STARTED!~**

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><p><em><strong>THE ARSE<strong>_

_**1. Invitation**_

Lying in bed with an excellent book to read when Zeus is paying a visit outside is one of the best experiences in the world.

And when your boyfriend is lying next to you, _actually being quiet_ for once … well, that's even more lovely than the sight of Francis being beaten and humiliated on the battlefield.

Not that you'd ever tell aforementioned boyfriend that, of course.

Still, it is quite wonderful. You're warm, you're comfortable, you're safe, you're loved … what more could you want?

A cup of tea, perhaps.

Okay, that was a rhetorical question.

Anyway. So, there you are, enjoying yourself immensely, happier than the color yellow, when _he_ has to go and ruin it.

And how does he ruin it? You'd think it would be something fairly typical of him, like a detailed description of his current position in one of his favourite video games, or a hero story, or a hamburger that he pulls of nowhere and begins to devour, or an excited retelling of an alien sighting, but it is none of those things.

It is much, much worse.

He slaps your arse.

"ALFRED! What the bloody hell was that for, you bloody git?"

"Hahaha … well … it was just sorta sticking up in the air, inviting me to slap it, so I did!"

"That's the stupidest bloody thing I have ever heard."

"But, Aaartie! You have such a nice arse, why won't you let me play with it?"

"MY ARSE IS NOT ONE OF YOUR BLOODY TOYS, YOU DOLT! And don't call me Artie!"

"But, Artie –"

"Okay, that's it, no sex for you tonight."

"But we haven't done it in an entire week!"

"THAT'S BESIDE THE POINT! … Okay, okay, fine."

"YAY! Thank you, Artie!"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

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><p><strong>Well, that one was short ... but this is the one that gave me the idea for this series in the first place, so I felt it had to be first. Future ones will be longer, I promise. :)<strong>

**My goal is to write one hundred. WISH ME LUCK! :D**

**I LOVE REVIEWS MORE THAN PRUSSIA LOVES HIMSELF. (Which is ... a whole lot. Yeah.)**

**(And for those of you who, I'm sure, were curious ... YES, THIS WAS INSPIRED BY SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED TO ME AND MY SISTER. OKAY, NOW YOU KNOW. GO AWAY.)**


	2. Tag

**Hey, everybody! Look, I'm not yet dead! (*sings* **_**I am not dead yet, I can dance and I can sing, I am not dead yet, I can do the highland thing**_** …) Sorry. I have about ten different Spamalot songs stuck in my head at the same time, thanks to the obsessive listening to the sound track of the Spamalot musical I've been doing of late … particularly Run Away, to which I'm going to make an AMV with everybody's favorite totally idiotic, Germany-loving Italian …**

**Anyway.**

**Here's the second one. Enjoy. :)**

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><p><em><strong>THE ARSE<strong>_

_**2. Tag**_

_SLAP!_

I looked up from my meeting notes to see the swiftly-retreating back of a certain perverted Frenchman.

"OI, FROG!" I hollered. "What the bloody hell was that for?"

"We're playing Ass Tag," he shouted from over his shoulder. "It's like regular Tag, only you have to slap the other person's ass!"

"Well, that's bloody stupid! There's no way I'm playing some idiot game like that!"

"If you don't tag someone else, everyone else has to slap your ass ten times each!"

Now, that was just blackmail.

"Who invented this bloody game anyway?" I asked.

"Gilbert did!" Francis replied. "Now, please don't hurt me, _Angleterre_!" He sprinted out of the meeting room, probably to hide in the women's bathroom or something similar. (Yes, I said the women's bathroom. This is _Francis_ we're talking about, people.)

"Gilbert, I'm going to bloody kill you!" I yelled, searching the room for the offending Prussian. I found him crouching behind an empty chair on the opposite side of the room, stood, and began to make my way towards him.

"Why would you want to kill The Awesome Me?" he whined. "Surely you know that the world would collapse from the lack of awesome caused by my death if you were to kill The Awesome Me."

I snorted. "I think I can survive that."

Gilbert changed tactics. "Well, if you want to kill The Awesome Me, you'll have to get through Mattie first!"

"Mattie?" I looked around, but the only people in this part of the room were the Prussian, myself, and Antonio, who appeared to be either sleeping or daydreaming and therefore didn't count.

"You know, Canada?" Prussia prompted.

"Canada? Who's that?" I didn't remember any countries named "Canada" …

I thought I heard someone say, "Me! I'm right here," but it was drowned out by the sound of Gilbert taking advantage of my confusion to follow Francis out of the meeting room.

I sighed. For supposedly excellent fighters, those two were surprisingly wimpy when the mood struck them.

Oh, well. Might as well play their stupid game and get it over with. Perhaps, if I participated, they'd stop pestering me and I could actually get some work done during break time …

…

It was probably too much to hope for.

But still worth a try, right?

Anyway, I decided that, since he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings (as usual), Antonio would be an easy target for me to tag. I tiptoed over to the Spaniard and slapped him lightly on the arse.

"_Que_?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking at me sleepily, like a cat just waking up from a nap. "Lovi? Is that you?~"

"No, you dolt, it's me, Arthur," I snapped.

He flashed me one of those famous, sunny smiles. "_Hola_, Arthur!~ _Que pasa_?"

"Well, Francis, Gilbert, apparently I, and God-knows-who-else are playing this completely idiotic game," I explained. "It's like Tag, only you can only tag people on their arses. I was It, and I guess you're it now."

"Oh, okay!" Antonio said. "That sounds fun! I'm It, right?"

"That's what I just said, bloody wanker."

"I suppose it is, ahahaha!~ _Adios_, Arthur!"

With that, the Spaniard yawned, stood up, and strode over to the back of the room, where Lovino was berating his brother for something or other. The Southern Italian hadn't been watching any of the tag game, and thus was completely unprepared when Antonio loudly smacked his arse.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU DAMN TOMATO BASTARD? I'LL KILL YOU FOR THAT, YEAH, I'LL FUCKING _MURDER_ YOU –"

"Aaah, you're so cute when you're angry, _mi tomate_!~"

"I AM NOT YOUR DAMNED TOMATO, ASSHOLE!"

_THUD!_

That was the sound of Lovino's fist rudely introducing itself to Antonio's face, in case you couldn't tell.

I snickered to myself. Even though this game was incredibly bloody stupid and perverted, it _did_ have its advantages, entertainment-wise. I watched the Spaniard stutter apologies to no avail the way one might watch someone one wasn't particularly fond of be pelted with water balloons.

Or at least, I _did_, until the Italian accidentally bumped into Alfred, who was sitting on the table, munching a hamburger …

And, as luck would have it, guess what _part_ of Alfred Lovino bumped into?

Yep. That's right. His arse.

_Shit._

I didn't have a chance to hear Antonio explain the rules of Arse Tag or Ass Tag or whatever the hell it was called to the American; I was too busy making a hasty – I mean, _extremely dignified_ – retreat.

But that bloody git always was faster than me.

_SLAP!_

"I hate you, you annoying, stupid, obnoxious American," I told him. "I'll never forgive you for this."

He grinned, and I swear, my brain stopped working for a second. "Oh, you won't will you?"

Alfred grabbed my collar with a grip so strong it should be illegal, leaned down, and pressed his lips to mine.

And, well, I hate to admit it, but …

… I forgave him.

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><p><strong>TRANSLATIONS:<strong>

_**Angleterre**_** = England [French]**

_**Que?**_** = What? [Spanish]**

_**Hola**_** = Hi [Spanish]**

_**Que pasa?**_** = What's going on? [Spanish]**

_**Adios**_** = Goodbye [Spanish]**

_**Mi tomate**_** = My tomato [Spanish]**

**Unfortunately enough, I showed this to my friends Lilah (FlyingSolo365) (the Prussia in our Hetalia RP group) and Hannah (ChibiAnimeFreak) (the Spain in our Hetalia RP group) and they've started many games of Arse Tag since. It's starting to make me regret writing this one. And now, since I've posted it, Kris (IgneousGlacies) (the France in our Hetalia RP group) will know about it, and probably start even more games … ugh, I don't even know why I bother.**

**(NOT BECAUSE I ENJOY MY ARSE BEING MOLESTED. SHUT UP, LILAH.)**

**I probably bother because I'm actually kind-of proud of this one …**

**Yeahhh …**

**==;**

**Reviews are loved.**


	3. Corner

**Yay for updating on Saturday instead of on Friday because on Friday you didn't get a chance because you went to see The Lion King in 3D with your friends and almost got kicked out of the theater for singing too loudly and then slept over at one of aforementioned friends' houses and ... and ... and ...**

**Yeah ...**

**That's my excuse, anyway.**

**Here, have an AU chapter/one-shot/drabble/thing. :D**

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><p><em><strong>THE ARSE<strong>_

_**3. Corner**_

The Bad Touch Trio is heading into an empty stairwell.

Or, well, more specifically, Gilbert is dragging Francis into an empty stairwell while Antonio follows behind.

Whichever way you look at it, it's not good.

Now, I mean, it's not like I'm not _glad_ to be rid of those perverts – I am. But the Flying Mint Bunny says – and I completely agree – that the Bad Touch Trio alone in an otherwise-empty stairwell has a 99.99% chance of becoming something … not exactly compliable with school rules. (I don't even want to think about what the other 0.01% would imply.) And, well, much as I hate those tossers, I'd rather not see them get in trouble.

Plus, if they start doing something inappropriate and I take pictures and/or videos, Elizaveta will pay me tons of tea for the footage.

So, anyway, my motives now sufficiently explained to whoever the bloody hell reads this damn thing, I stride past the staircase and into the white-walled area behind it.

"Oi, Bad Touch Trio, what the bloody hell are you doing?" I inquire.

Francis is slouched against the wall, half asleep thanks to the all-nighter he pulled last night (no, I don't know why he pulled an all-nighter, and no, I don't _want_ to know, either); Antonio is holding a tomato up to his friend's face, attempting to cheer him up, and Gilbert is … Gilbert is … where _is_ Gilbert, anyway?

A pair of strong arms grab mine and twist mine behind my back. "This is _perfect_, kesesesese.~"

Oh. He's behind me.

…

Oh, bollocks.

"_What's_ bloody perfect, damn it?" I demand, though I already know the answer.

"You … and me … alone … in a corner …" the evil, German-accented voice says, cackling at the thought.

"But your friends are here! So we're not alone!" Maybe I have an out, and he'll release me without a struggle …

"Yeah, but they don't count. Maybe they'll even _help_ me, _kesesese_.~"

Well, so much for that idea.

On to Plan B: struggle. Yeah, I know that bloody Prussian is stronger than me – he takes martial arts lessons while the most athletic thing I do is walk home from school a couple times a week – but I'm a tsundere, and bloody proud of it, so I don't have many other choices. And the other choices I _do_ have (talk my way out of it, which I already tried, and give in while blushing and weakly protesting, which is not desirable for yours truly _**in the least**_) aren't really options at the moment.

I pull and grit my teeth and pull and curse and pull and take a few steps forward and pull and _pull_ and _**pull**_, but I just can't get my arms out of the lock Gilbert has them in, damn it all!

"I … hate … you …" I manage between yanks.

"_Kesesese_, love you, too, Art," he replies. God, I can just _see_ his stupid grin, the one he wears when he's about to do something I really won't enjoy.

Just then, the door on the other side of the stairwell leading outside opens and Dr. Romulus, the school's happy-go-lucky Latin teacher, steps in, swinging his briefcase and whistling happily.

_Yes! A teacher! I'm saved!_

…

Not that I couldn't save myself, of course …

"_Ciao_, boys," Dr. Romulus greets us with a smile. "And what might you be doing this fine morning?~"

Gilbert returns the grin. "Oh, you know … Making perverted jokes with Francis, singing obscene songs with Antonio, laughing at West, torturing Lovino, raping Arthur … The usual."

I hold my breath, waiting for the moment I'm sure will come – _"You're what? … Gilbert, that's completely against school rules … I'll have to give you a detention …_"

But it never comes.

Instead, the teacher simply laughs and says, "Well, carry on, then," and strides out into the hallway.

The expression on my face, stuttering "Wha – no – but –"s, and body posture in general are probably priceless – well, that would explain why Gilbert is laughing. I attempt to take advantage of his momentary distraction by giving an extra-hard yank. For one blissful moment, I'm free …

And then, I'm caught in a glomp-tackle-hug-torture-thing from behind.

"I thought you could use a little help, Gil, _fusososo_,~" a voice with a distinct _Spanish_ accent says just above my ear.

"Damn you, Antonio, you bloody git," I snarl, struggling to escape his chokehold.

Unfortunately, I'm ignored.

"I sure can, _kesesese_.~" The Prussian advances on me from the front, smirking like he's about to rape somebody – which he probably is, now that I think about it. "Hey, Frenchie, what're you doing? Usually you'd be _helping_, too, if you know what I mean.~"

"Ungh," Francis moans, still slouched against the wall. Absently, I wonder if that's really comfortable at all … I hope it isn't. I hope his arse will never be the same. Mwuoahaha.

…

Anyway, the frog is still talking …

"Well, normally, I would _love_ to, _ohonhonhon,_ but … I'm just … so … _tired_ …"

"Oh, yeah, you were with Ivan all night last night, weren't you, _amigo_?" Antonio asks. "How many times did you fuck him?"

"Or should we say, how many times did _he_ fuck _you_, eh, Frenchie?" Gilbert adds, snickering.

"What? I'll have you know that I _always_ top," Francis replies indignantly.

"Oh, really?" the albino retorts. "I don't know how you could possibly top that Russian mountain-of-a-man … I mean, he _is_ twice your size … kinda like how I'm twice _Art_'s size, _kesesese_ …"

Did I neglect to mention that while this conversation was going on, the Prussian and the Spaniard have been slowly getting closer and closer to my person?

…

I did, didn't I?

…

Well, they _are_.

And it's not bloody _fun_. I feel like a bloody _marshmallow_. In between two graham crackers. _Ugly, perverted, disgusting, stupid_ graham crackers.

…

It's not funny, damn it.

Stop laughing.

Right now.

A-anyway, while my personal space disappears like coke up a Columbian's nose, the frog throws an insult at his silver-haired friend/partner-in-crime/fuck buddy/thing. "You wouldn't be able to top Arthur if he was tied hand and foot, _mon ami_."

Gilbert blatantly ignores the Frenchman and says to Antonio, "You know, Churro, it's really awesome of you to help me out with deflowering Art. Completely unlike that _un-awesome jerk who couldn't top a dead ant_ over there. In fact, I'm so grateful to you that I'll take back what I said about Lovino being a bitch."

"Why would you want to do that?" Antonio wonders, confused. "He _is_ a bitch."

"_**What did you just call me, damned fucking tomato bastard?**_"

… And the Italian whirlwind of fury is upon us. Forecasters predict a 100% chance of total chaos, destruction, and Spanish-arse-kicking.

"Ah, but _Lovi_!~ – _oof_ – I didn't mean it as a _bad_ thing – _agh_ – being a bitch means that you don't – _ungh_ – let anyone push you around and you're really – _nyarg_ – determined, plus incredibly cute and – _ah_ – I love you even more because of it – OW, LOVI, THAT WAS MY CHURRO! NOT CUTE! NOT CUTE AT ALL!"

I try to take advantage of the situation by making a dash for the hallway but, alas, the Prussian grabs my arms before I can make it two feet.

"And just _where_ do you think you're going, _kesese_?~"

"You can't rape me," I tell him in a final attempt to get away. "That's … that's … illegal!"

"Since when has that ever stopped me?" he asks, moving in closer. I pull away, and for a minute or so, we engage in a sort of tug of war with my arms as the rope.

Suddenly, he lets go, and I fall backward.

Right. Onto. My. Arse.

_Ow._

"Y-you _bastard_," I stammer angrily. "My arse will never be the same!"

He approaches me like a lion stalking its prey, about to jump in for the kill. "And that's just the way I like it. Now stay right there, and don't move, or I'll –"

_RIIIIIING._

"_Scheisse_," the albino curses. "If I'm late to homeroom again, Mrs. Gazenfram will pin me up on her bulletin board and impale me with a staple gun! _Not awesome_!"

Completely forgetting me, he dashes down the hallway.

_Saved by the bell._

_Literally._

_Argh …_

For a moment, I simply sit there, on the floor, catching my breath, then –

"Hey, Artie, want some help?"

It's Alfred, the bloody American, reaching out his hand to me and looking at me with that idiotic grin that never fails to make me go all warm and fuzzy inside.

I blush, mutter something incomprehensible about stupid wankers and their stupid facial expressions that aren't cute at all, and take his oddly sweaty hand. He pulls me to my feet with surprising strength and we set off down the hallway in the direction of our homeroom.

He doesn't let go of my hand, and for some reason I can't fathom, I don't mind.

"How long were you there, watching?" I demand after a minute of companionable silence – well, as silent a silence can get when it's constantly being interrupted by the banging of lockers, shouts of other students, plodding of feet, and all the other sounds normal for a high school at seven-thirty A.M.

Alfred shrugs. "Pretty much the whole time."

"What?" I squawk. "Why didn't you help me out before this, you git?"

He turns and grins at me. "It was fun to watch, you know? _So_ much better than T.V." Before I can yell at him, he adds, "Besides, I would've helped you escape if Lovino hadn't starting beating Antonio up. It's my duty as the hero!"

"Of course it bloody is," I grumble.

"And I _did_ manage to kick Gil in his precious five meters as he was running away," the American says. "Nobody makes you fall on your ass but me."

"You did?"

"Yup."

… Huh. Well. I guess the Prussian pervert got at least a _little_ bit of punishment. Things are looking up.

"Hey, um, Artie …"

"What is it, dolt?"

"Would you and your ass like to come watch the football game today and maybe go out for ice cream afterwards? Coach said he might let me start."

There are a thousand excuses I could make – homework, doctor's appointment, music lesson, family thing, Flying Mint Bunny's check-up at the vet – but … well … maybe watching Alfred run around a field in uniform for a couple hours and then feasting on delicious, half-frozen goodness might not be so bad.

"Only if you pay, git."

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><p><strong>WHO CAUGHT THE STEREOTYPE SONG REFERENCE? RAISE YOUR HAND! YOU ARE AWESOME! AWESOME IS WHAT YOU ARE! Except for you, Lilah. You're just a pervert.<strong>

**Before you ask, yes, this is based off of a true story. More specifically, something that happened to me before school a couple days ago. (Me = England, FlyingSolo365 = Prussia, ChibiAnimeFreak = Spain, IgneousGlacies = France.) I simply embellished it a little and added in the FRussia, Spamno, and USUK. (When it actually happened, it was our Chibitalia - EdwardCullen'sNumber1Girl - who got Spain off me.) And yes, falling on my arse really did hurt. A lot. Stop laughing. Right now.**

**Review?**

**(P.S. PUSS IN BOOTS IS PIRATE!ANTONIO!CAT. YOUR ARGUMENT IS INVALID.)**


	4. Weakness

**(I meant to post this yesterday, but then the internet stopped working so I couldn't post it until now ... sorry.)  
><strong>

**THIS CHAPTER IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY IVAN'S VITAL REGIONS, WHICH I AM CURRENTLY RESIDING IN. THAT IS ALL.**

**(EDIT 10/1/11: Edited the German translations. Thanks to _Saturn-Jupiter _for that. :D)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>THE ARSE<strong>_

_**4. Weakness**_

"And you solemnly swear on all things magical that you will not fuck a Spaniard no matter how drunk you are and/or how hot he/she/it is?"

"For the last time, _yes_! I do!"

"Do _what_?"

"Solemnly swear."

"On …"

"All things magical."

"That …"

"I won't fuck a Spaniard."

"No matter …"

"How drunk I am."

"And/or …"

"How hot he/she/it is."

"Again. The entire thing."

"I solemnly swear on all things magical that I won't fuck a Spaniard, no matter how drunk I am and/or how hot he/she/it is. Can I go now?"

"Aye, just don't strip. Or dance on tabletops. Or get into swordfights. Or gamble. Or talk too loudly. Or spend all of your money on beer. Or –"

"My God, Artie, just because _you're_ liable to do anything or anyone when you're drunk doesn't mean _I_ am. And you're not my mother."

"I'm just taking some bloody precautions, damn it! What's wrong with that? I can't afford to pay bail for any more of my crew after what Thomas and Nathaniel did last week! And that's _ Captain_ Artie to you, Jones! … Are you even listening to me?"

The American shot the British man the finger as he swaggered into the German pub clearly labeled … something in German that was incomprehensible except for the word "beer."

The Brit sighed, readjusted his immense (but very impressive) hat, and hurried after the American.

* * *

><p>As Alfred F. Jones, surprisingly kind (for a pirate) first mate on the ship of the infamous Arthur Kirkland, strode into the pub, the first thing that struck him about it was how <em>clean<em> it was.

Seriously. He'd heard that Germans were neat freaks, but this was simply too much. The place practically _sparkled_, for hamburger's sake! The tables and chairs were in perfect order; the wood finishes gleamed; the immense glass beer mugs shined; the pictures on the (very white) walls hung at exact right angles; the original color of the floor was actually visible; and there wasn't a speck of dirt or dust to be seen anywhere.

_I bet even the __**latrines **__are clean,_ the American mused, plopping down in a chair near the back corner of the pub. He yawned – it had been a long night chasing some Italian merchant ships that were the fucking _bosses_ of running away – and leaned back in his chair, placing his boots on the dark-orange-colored tablecloth.

"_Entschuldigen Sie, Sir__, könnten Sie das nicht tun, bitte?_"

Alfred looked up to see a tall, blue-eyed German with slicked-back blond hair, a waiter's outfit, and a scary expression glaring down at him.

"AAH!"

Startled, the pirate lost his balance and toppled over onto the ground. The German face-palmed, muttered something in German that most likely didn't praise Alfred's motor skills in the least, and commenced restoring the table and chair to their former glory.

The cause of the mess simply lay on the floor, groaning in over-exaggerated pain.

"_Es tut mir Leid, dass ich Sie erschrocken habe,__"_the waiter said, extending a hand to the American that was gladly taken and used to stand up.

"I'm sorry, mate," Alfred admitted. "I don't understand a word you're saying."

"Ah, you speak English?" the German asked.

Alfred nodded happily, a bit surprised that the other man knew English (albeit with a stronger German accent than he thought was vocally possible.)

"I should know you are English by the … ah … how you say … on your shoulder …" he trailed off.

"Tattoo?" the American suggested, glancing down at his bare shoulder, exposed by his sleeveless shirt.

"Yes, tattoo," the German continued. "Tattoo of British flag on your shoulder."

"Well, actually, I'm American," Alfred said.

"Then why tattoo?"

"I got it because of my … ah …" How did he describe Arthur? "… best friend. He's British."

The pirate fondly remembered the time he'd acquired the tattoo a few years back – he'd been incredibly proud of it, showing it off to the entire crew and proclaiming to anyone who'd listen how the design symbolized his loyalty to his Captain while Artie had simply smacked him and berated him about what could've happened if he caught a disease from the needle used to give him the tattoo or something like the mother hen the Captain truly was.

Anyway, the German was introducing himself. "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt. And you?"

The American hesitated before giving his name – was Germany one of the countries they were wanted in? He didn't think so. They weren't, were they?

Oh, well, he was too lazy to think of a fake name, anyway.

"Alfred F. Jones."

"Pleased to meet you," Ludwig replied. "Would you like something to drink?"

"What d'you have?"

"Let me think … Weizenbier, Weizenbock, Roggenbier, Berliner Weisse, Leipziger Gose, Hefeweizen, Kolsch, Helles, Pilsener, Altbier, Export, Spezial, Bock, Eisbock, Marzen, Schwarzbier, Dunkles, Rauchbier, and Dopplebock. Oh, and I think I could find you some British beer, if you like," the waiter added with a glance at Alfred's tattoo.

…

"Did I say something wrong?"

The American rearranged his face from its appalled expression and laughed awkwardly. "No, it's just that I can't stand British beer. It's disgusting. Don't tell Artie I said that, though."

Ludwig smiled slightly. "Very true."

"Can you just get me your favorite beer?" Alfred asked. "I don't know anything about German beer."

"Of course. That tap empty one minute ago, but I ask my brother to get new one from the back." The German turned around to yell in the general direction of the bar: "_OST! HORT AUF, MIT MATTIE ZU FLIRTEN UND HOL DIR EINEN BOTTICH VON SCHWARZBIER VON DER ABSEITE AB!_"

An albino man with a demonic sort of face looked up, scowled, and hollered back, "_WOHER WEISST DU, DASS ICH MIT MATTIE FLIRTE?_"

"_DU FLIRTEST IMMER MIT MATTIE! WANN DU EINEN MANN WERDEN UND IHM FRAGST?_"

"_I WIRD, WENN DU EINEN MANN WERDEN WIRST UND FRAGST FELICIANO!_"

Ludwig blushed, something that looked entirely out of place on his strong features, and Alfred wondered what the man's brother had said. Whatever it was, the banter reminded him of old times with him and Artie. Their parents had been quite close, so they'd grown up like brothers – always fighting but never really able to hate each other. When Arthur's father threatened the Brit, who'd always wanted to be a sailor, with banishment from the family if he didn't take up the family tailor business and Artie ran away to become a pirate, what could Alfred have done but follow?

And now they were the captain and first mate of the most feared crew on all the Seven Seas, so it had turned out quite well, considering.

Considering Artie still got completely drunk every chance he got to drown out the memories of his family's scorn and hatred of him.

But Alfred didn't like to think about that.

Finally, the blond German cleared his throat and called to his brother, "_GERADE DAS BIER, NICHT WAHR?_"

The albino never got a chance to do that, though, because of a fight that broke out on the other side of the bar.

* * *

><p>Now, I'm sure all you yaoi fangi – excuse me, <em>readers<em> out there are wondering how this fight came to be, particularly as it was a fight between the two pirates Arthur Krikland and Antonio Carriedo, also known as the two sexiest characters in the entire Hetalia fandom. So let's backtrack a little. Five minutes, say. To a very simply, mundane thing:

A mug of beer.

"HEY, YOU! YOU WITH THE FACE! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

"I'm drinking some fucking beer. What the fuck's wrong with that?"

"The fact that it's _my_ bloody beer."

"Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know that?"

"You could, oh, I don't bloody know, _guess_."

"How the fuck am I supposed to do that if I'm fucking _drunk_?"

"Oh, so you're stupid _and_ drunk?"

"Hell yeah. Why else would I be drinking fucking beer made in _Germany_?"

I'm sure you've deduced the identity of the two speakers by this point: Arthur Kirkland, foul-mouthed British pirate captain extraordinaire, and Lovino Vargas, equally foul-mouthed Italian mafia boss extraordinaire. Squabbling over – would you fucking believe it – a mug of German beer like England and France over … well … pretty much anything. The two of them were seated next to each other at the bar, one hoping to drown his many not entirely pleasant thoughts and the other hoping to become totally intoxicated and thus able to tell the Spaniard currently attached to his waist how he really felt.

With the situation sufficiently explained, back to the story!

"Well, here's a question for you, _bitch_," Arthur snarled, his pirate-esque character clearly showing as he leered in the Italian's face. "How'm I supposed to get drunk if _bitches_ like you steal my bloody drinks?"

The face of the Spaniard (who had, before that moment, been contentedly nuzzling the Italian's shoulder) suddenly darkened like the sky just before a storm. "What did you just call _mi Lovinito_?"

The British pirate, noticing the Spaniard for the first time and taking in his elaborate coat, pants, boots, and hat, kneeled down so that he was eye-to-eye with his newfound enemy before repeating his insult. "A _bitch_."

The Spaniard visibly bristled. "_Nobody_ calls _mi Lovinito_ that and gets away with it."

"Oh, really?"

"_Sì_, really."

If glares were lazers, the two pirates would've been dead by that point.

The British man suddenly grinned – a proud, sadistic, scary grin that struck fear into the hearts of almost everyone around him – and jumped back out into the unoccupied center of the pub, drawing his trusty sword. "_En garde_," he said, then quickly added with an equally frightening laugh, "The only two French words I like."

"Challenge accepted, _amigo_."

Something about the way the Spaniard uttered the word "_amigo_" made it clear to everyone watching that he had absolutely no intention of becoming friends with the Brit.

And just like that, they were fighting.

For a while, the fight seemed to be pretty much even; both fighters were extremely skilled with their blades and neither showed any signs of giving in. To onlookers, their battle appeared to be more of an elaborate dance, so beautiful, fluid, and totally pointless were their movements. Every thrust was blocked; every swing was halted; every insult was returned. Some people were starting to think it would never end.

Until a certain Italian shouted a certain thing to a certain Spaniard.

"OI, _BASTARDO_! If you win this, I'll let you cuddle with me for an entire week with no complaints!"

"You better be ready to keep your word, Lovi," Antonio growled. Seized by a sudden burst of inspiration, he tossed his sword aside (where it lodged in the wall, never to be removed) and, before the British man could recover from his surprise, lunged forward and grabbed the man's arse.

The result was immediate: Arthur was totally and completely paralyzed.

Antonio smiled a triumphant, feral smile much, much scarier than Arthur's earlier one and proceeded to pound into his enemy with his fists. By the time the Brit could move again, he was so beaten that he didn't want to for fear of making the pain even worse than it already was.

The last thing he remembered saying before he blacked out was:

"You … bloody … arsehole … you … found … my … bloody … weakness … damn … you …"

* * *

><p>"Artie?"<p>

Alfred poked his captain's unconscious body with his boot. There was no response.

"Aaaaartie? C'mon, mate, you have to get up."

The pub was empty – it was two A.M., and everyone had left, leaving the British pirate for dead. After all, it wouldn't have been the first time Antonio Carriedo had killed someone because of his precious "Lovi."

But Alfred knew that his friend wouldn't die that easily, so he had broken in to the abandoned pu and, well, there he was.

"Seriously. If you don't wake up soon, I'll have to be captain of your fair lady. And you wouldn't want that, would you, mate?"

Still no response.

The American sighed and knelt down next to his friend. Arthur was covered in bumps, bruises, and indents from the Spaniard's fists, but he somehow looked peaceful and innocent. There was a cute little smile on his rough features, as if he was dreaming of something pleasant, that just made Alfred want to kiss him.

Well, who knew. Maybe it would wake him up.

So Alfred did just that.

Kissed Arthur, that is.

It was a soft, chaste kiss – at first. The moment the American's lips brushed his own, Arthur's bright green eyes snapped open and he grabbed Alfred's head, keeping it right where he wanted it as he explored every inch of the man's mouth with his own until the two finally broke apart, gasping for breath and staring at each other's eyes as if they were complete strangers.

"What … what the hell was that?" Alfred stammered.

"I don't know." Arthur grinned maliciously again, and, this time, it made Alfred's heartbeat speed up by about a hundred and two percent. "But I liked it."

The Brit pulled the American's head down to his him again, but the American resisted. "Whoa, not so fast, old man."

"Hey, who're you callin' old man? I'm only four years older than you! And you liked it, too, I can tell!"

Alfred laughed. "Aye, I did. But I'm not doing anything with you until you're fixed up."

"Why can't you be this responsible when it's time to clean your bunk?" Arthur grumbled. He didn't protest, though, as his first mate helped him to his feet and the two of them began the long stumble outside and to their ship.

"As soon as I am fixed up, though, we're trying that again."

"Sure, old man. Whatever you say."

"Hey, that's _Captain_ Old Man to you, cheeky blighter."

"Hey, Captian Old Man … are we wanted in Germany?"

"If we weren't before, we are now. Why?"

"Well, I may have told one of the waiters my real name …"

"WHAT? YOU BLOODY IDIOT! IF I WASN'T HALF-DEAD RIGHT NOW, YOU'D BE IN PIECES SO SMALL, YOU COULDN'T EVEN SEE THEM! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL POSESSED YOU TO DO SUCH A THING?"

Thus began the long and dreadful feud between two infamous pirates, one British, one Spanish, and both with stupid boyfriends.

* * *

><p><strong>First and foremost, I apologize for (most likely) totally butchering all the German in this fic. Although becoming fluent in German is one of my life goals, I haven't done it yet, and, at the moment, have to rely on Google Translator.<strong>

**Which isn't always reliable.**

**Anyway, TRANSLATIONS:**

**_Entschuldigen Sie, Sir_****_, könnten Sie das nicht tun, bitte?_**** = Excuse me, sir, could you not do that, please? [German]**

_**Es tut mir Leid, dass ich Sie erschrocken habe **_**= I'm sorry, ****I didn't mean to startle you. [German]**

**_OST! HORT AUF, MIT MATTIE ZU FLIRTEN UND HOL DIR EINEN BOTTICH VON SCHWARZBIER VON DER ABSEITE AB! _= EAST! STOP FLIRTING WITH MATTIE AND GET ANOTHER KEG OF SCHWARZBIER FROM THE BACK! [German]**

**_WOHER WEISST DU, DASS ICH MIT MATTIE FLIRTE? _= HOW'D YOU KNOW I WAS FLIRTING WITH MATTIE? [German]**

**_DU FLIRTEST IMMER MIT MATTIE! WANN DU EINEN MANN WERDEN UND IHM FRAGST? _= YOU'RE ALWAYS FLIRTING WITH MATTIE! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO MAN UP AND ASK HIM OUT ALREADY? [German]**

**_I WIRD, WENN DU EINEN MANN WERDEN WIRST UND FRAGST FELICIANO!_ = I WILL WHEN _YOU_ MAN UP AND ASK FELICIANO OUT! [German]**

**_GERADE DAS BIER, NICHT WAHR?_ = JUST GET THE BEER, WOULD YOU? [German]**

**_Mi Lovinito_ = My (small) Lovino [Spanish]**

**_S_****_ì_ = Yes [Spanish]**

**_En garde_ = Warning / be ready to fight [French]**

**_Amigo_ = Friend [Spanish]**

**_Bastardo_ = Bastard [Italian]**

**Special thanks also goes to Wikipedia for giving me that list of German beers. xD**

**Special thanks also goes to Wikipedia for giving me that list of German beers. xD**

**And yes, I really, truly, seriously am in Moscow right now. In fact, the window of the room I'm staying in looks out on the downtown Moscow. It's freaking awesome. (I'm here with my family because of … well … family issues. I got to miss two weeks of school. Fun. Well, at least I get to practice my Russian. And lots of free time to write. And tea for, like, every single meal. Seriously, if you thought the Brits were crazy about tea, you should see the Russians … not that I mind, of course. :D)**

**Oh, and by the way, this one is longer than most other drabbles/one-shots in this series (not to mention proof-read more) because I'm entering it into the Pirate!England contest going on in the SexyEnglandFC group on deviantART right now.**

**I'm seriously considering turning this into a full-fledged fic, though. I can make a plot out of Arthur and Alfred's relationship issues … Arthur and Antonio's feud … Arthur's ship being chased by German police ... etcetra, etcetra, etcetra.**

**Problem is, I have so much other stuff I want to write.**

**I decided to make a list of the five multi-chapter Hetalia fics I'm considering writing after I finish Something Romeo-and-Juliet-ish (the Maximum Ride fic that is my main focus at the moment) and put it on my profile, along with a poll. What do you guys think I should write next?**

**Please tell me, because I'm seriously having a hard time deciding.**

**And, of course, review.**

'**Cause if you review, I'll be happy. And happy writers make better writers.**

**Plus, I'll give you virtual tea.**

**Just sayin'. :)**


	5. Bribe

**This week's oneshot features Russia because, well, that's where I am right now. xD**

**And since Russia's in it … there's FRussia, of course. :D FRussia is definitely the best France pairing AND the best Russia pairing there is – not only does it have historical evidence, I found six pieces of evidence of FRussia while I was in Moscow. I posted the strongest piece of evidence on dA; here, have a link: http : / owlinaminor . deviantart . com / art / PROOF – OF – FRUSSIA – 262263298 (Take out the spaces.)**

* * *

><p><em><strong>THE ARSE<strong>_

_**5. Bribe**_

_BAM! WHAM! POW!_

"Die, aliens, die!" I shout, repeatedly pressing the trigger button on my gaming controller, shooting bullet after bullet into the horde of greenish-white creatures attacking my game character.

Tony turns around from his game (he's playing one with zombies) and looks at me. I'm not sure if he's glaring at me for what I said or simply checking on how I'm doing; I'm not very good at reading alien facial expressions.

I'm not all that good at reading _human_ facial expressions, either, now that I think about it …

Except Iggy's, for some odd reason …

Anyway.

I quickly apologize to Tony, just in case. "Sorry, dude. I was talking to the game."

He rolls his eyes, as if to say, _I'm not mad at you, idiot,_ and holds up my cell phone.

"Why –" I start to ask.

He shoves the phone in my face, and I finally notice what he probably wanted to tell me the entire time: it's ringing.

I quickly jab the talk button and press the phone to my ear.

"Hey, wassup?"

"Um, I believe the sky is up, _da_?" a childish, creepy, and unmistakably _Russian_ voice replies.

Oh, no. This can't be good. Russia never calls anyone, unless, of course, it's to threaten somebody with impending doom.

Or ask somebody to become one with him.

Same thing.

Anyway, I chuckle nervously and glance around the room, trying to distract myself from the scary vodka-lover on the other end of the phone. It doesn't work, but I do realize something a bit odd.

"Hey, Russia, dude, why are you calling me at two o'clock in the morning?"

I haven't been sleeping – why sleep when you can play video games? – but still. Who calls people at two A.M.?

Besides Russia, of course.

And Iggy.

Though Iggy only does it when he's drunk, so I'm not sure that counts …

"Huh?" The Russian seems confused. Which is not good at all, since he often gets un-confused by destroying whatever was confusing him. "Your clock is wrong, _tovarish_, _da_?"

I check it again, but the glowing red numbers on the DVD player definitely read two-oh-nine A.M., same as the clock. "Nope, it's right."

"Is mine wrong, then?" he wonders.

"What does yours say?" I ask.

"_Deset chasov_ – I mean, ten o'clock in the morning."

Weird …

…

Hey, wait a second …

"Russia, dude, have you ever heard of a time change?"

"No, I can't say I have, _tovarish_," he admits. "Also, could you stop calling me 'dude,' _pajalsta_? IT is making me nervous."

"Oh, yeah, sure," I say quickly. "So, what were you calling about?"

"Um … give me the gas payments or I will crush you like a bug? No, wait, that was why I need to call _moya starshaya sestra_ …"

_Thank God_, I think.

"Ah, _ya pomnyu_! I want you to tell France that I love him."

"WHAT?"

That can't be true. Russia doesn't love people. He likes people, he hates people, he scares people, he rapes people, he kills people … but he doesn't _love_ people. Especially not France. I mean, can you imagine Russia and France together? That's freakin' scary, man!

"_Da_, _ya lublyu evo_," Russia is saying. "Spain helped me figure it out. He's a bit weird, but really a nice guy, _da_?"

"Y-y-yeah," I stammer. "But why should I tell him? Shouldn't you do it yourself?"

"I want to, but I'm too scared."

"Well, uh, why should I do it, then?"

"I'll give you something in return."

"Like …"

There is silence for a minute while he thinks, and then:

"Would a picture of England's naked ass do?"

_Yes, it would do. Oh, God, yes …_ I picture England's ass in my head, his beautiful, delicious ass. Oh, how I want to slap it, slap it until its owner is red in the face and begging for mercy …

"It will do, _da_?" Russia interrupts my fantasizing.

"Oh. Uh." I clear my throat. "Yes. It will do nicely. Uh … why do you have a picture of England's naked ass, anyway?"

"Well, England was acting really depressed one time, I think it was after your Revolutionary War or something, and I invited him to go drinking with me, and he had some _ochen horoshaya_ vodka, and there was this incident with an octopus, and –"

I shiver. Iggy and Russia drunk together is _not_ something I want to think about. _Ever_.

"Yeah, I don't' really want to know any more," I tell the Russian in question.

"Okay, so you will tell him, then I will give you the picture, _da_?"

"No way! Give me the picture first!"

"No, you will tell him first," Russia insists in that really creepy voice that makes me feel all cold and Siberian-blizzard-y inside.

It's pretty much the scariest sound a person can make.

"Okay, fine, whatever you say," I squeak.

"_Spasibo_."

"Bye, Russia!"

"Wait, do not leave yet, _tovarish_. I still need to ask you one more thing."

"Okay, what?"

"_**You will become one with Russia, da?**_"

I throw the phone across the room where it crashes against the window, breaking the glass into a thousand pieces.

Well, at least I don't have to talk to Mr. Creepy anymore.

And, soon, I'll have my very own picture of Iggy's ass to hug and stare at and tape to my bedroom wall and …

_****This part of the story was abruptly cut off in order to keep the rating to T. We apologize for the inconvenience.****_

_**~~~A FEW DAYS LATER, AT A WORLD MEETING~~~**_

"America, what the bloody hell is taking you so long? We're about to start! … Hey, stop playing on your laptop and look at me, you git! … What the … YOU BLOODY PERVERT, WHY THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU HAVE A BLOODY PICTURE OF MY BLOODY ARSE ON YOUR BLOODY DESKTOP?"

* * *

><p><strong>America is DEAD. Hahahaha.<br>**

**TRANSLATIONS: (All from Russian)**

_**Da**_** = Yes**

_**Tovarish**_** = Comrade**

_**Deset chasov**_** = Ten o'clock**

_**Pajalsta**_** = Please**

_**Moya starshaya sestra**_** = My older sister**

_**Ya pomnyu**_**! = I remember!**

_**Da**_**, **_**ya lublyu evo**_**. = Yes, I love him.**

_**Ochen horoshaya**_** = Very good**

_**Spasibo**_** = Thank you**

**I'm working on a really long oneshot for next week based on my experience in Moscow, so look forward to that! ^J^**

**Also, question: if I were to post a UKUS lemon on FFnet, would any of you read it?  
><strong>

**Reviews are loved.**


	6. Beach

**Guess who got to 25,000 words on her NaNoWriMo story yesterday night? THIS BITCH. And in celebration, I'm posting this for you lovely people. Enjoy, while I work my arse off writing some more.**

**Also, I tried a new sort of perspective on this one, so don't be alarmed if it's a bit … weird.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>THE ARSE<strong>_

_**6. Beach**_

It's a wonderful day for a gathering at the beach: the sun is in a happy, shining mood; there's enough of a breeze to make the water slightly choppy; the attacking seagulls are taking a day off; large rocks and seashells (the sort that enjoy killing the feet of innocent beach-goers) are surprisingly scarce; and the beach is practically empty thanks to a festival taking place in the nearby towns today. Anyone with the smallest semblance of sanity would be here today, enjoying the sun, the sea, and the … ah … the … _entertainment._

By "entertainment," of course, I mean "the nation personifications who are also visiting this particular beach today."

After all, with people like Gilbert Beilschmidt, Antonio Carriedo, Francis Bonnefoy, Arthur Kirkland, Alfred Jones, Ludwig Beilschmidt, Kiku Honda, Ivan Braginsky, Elizaveta Héderváry, and the Vargas brothers around, who needs a television?

Look over there, for example. Elizaveta is attacking Gilbert with a frying pan (probably because he made a perverted comment about her body again.) Arthur and Kiku are having a heated debate about whether English tea or Japanese tea is better. (What do you think, readers? Let me know on my current poll!) Ludwig and Ian are having a staring contest for no apparent reason whatsoever (but I have to say, both of their concentrating faces are really, _really_ hot.) Feli and Lovi are building a huge sand-sculpture shaped like a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Alfred is practicing his freestyle in the water (as if he needs to; he's already the fastest swimmer here.) Francis and Antonio are having an intense conversation about something. (I bet it'll lead into something interesting – a prank, perhaps – later, so stay tuned.)

Hmm. Why do I feel like I'm forgetting someone? I don't think I'm missing anybody …

Anyway.

As if this isn't entertaining enough, since we're at a beach, everyone is wearing a swimsuit. Ogling male chests is the name of the game for this professional fangirl. And for some of them (cough cough _Francis_ cough cough), their swimsuits are revealing enough that I can ogle more than just their chests.

(Of course, you can ogle them, too, dear readers, since I took pictures.)

Something intriguing is going on now; Francis is turning around and yelling while Antonio grins and laughs.

It sounds to me like Francis said, "Oi, _Angleterre_!"

(For those of you who don't know, "Angleterre" means "England" in French.)

The Brit must have heard, because he pauses in his and Kiku's argument, looks at the Frenchman, and calls, "What is it, frog?"

The answer – loud enough for everyone on the beach to hear – is: "_Votre__derrière__est__magnifique_!"

"WHAT did you just say?"

To save me (and Athur) the trouble of looking up his comment on Google Translator, Francis repeats it in English. "Your … ah … how do you say it in _Anglais_ … arse, it is a work of art!"

As if to accentuate this fact, Francis walks over to Arthur and slaps the aforementioned arse so hard that there is an audible _SMACK!_

The Brit's face is now so red; you could cook an egg on it.

Before he can begin ranting at the "bloody perverted frog," though, there is a loud gunshot, and something small, dark, and dangerous whizzes by Francis' ear.

Everyone (Francis, Arthur, and a number of other nations who are watching the confrontation) looks around for the shooter. He isn't very hard to find.

It's Alfred, of course.

The American is out of the water, but obviously hasn't been for very long – there are salty drops running off his (very fine) chest. His glasses are perched on his nose and his face is twisted into a grim, angry, protective, un-Alfred scowl. It makes him look like some sort of feral animal (not that that's a bad thing, of course.) The thing about him that makes it clear _he_ was the shooter, however, is the revolver he is currently pointing at the Frenchman's head.

Francis, famously uncourageous, lets out a whimper.

Arthur grins widely.

"Stay. Away. From. _**My**_. Artie's. Arse," the American practically growls through gritted teeth. (_Oh__my__God__so__hot__so__hot__so__hot._) "Stay _away_ from it, or the next bullet will go through your worthless excuse for a brain. Got it?"

"_O-o-o-oui_, America," Francis croaks.

"I'm glad you understand."

And with that, Alfred sticks his gun into the pocket of his swim trunks and strides over to his boyfriend, all the while muttering things like "_**My**_ Artie's arse" and "Stay _away_." He then proceeds to _demonstrate_ how Arthur's arse belongs to him by grabbing it with one hand, whacking it with the other, and leaning in to kiss the British man on the mouth.

There is some protest, of course – "Hey, Alfred, what are you doing?" "Not in public, you git!" "Get off!" "I said, OFF!" – but eventually, the English nation gives in and there is some _serious_ making out. (SQUEE!)

Needless to say, Elizaveta's and Kiku's cameras are clicking away at the speed of light.

I would strongly suggest that if you're in the area of Dolphin Beach, Florida, you get _your_ arse over here right now for some incredible yaoi action.

But if you can't, I'm video-taping the entire thing with my webcam and it'll be on YouTube shortly.

For now, this is Robyn Nightshade, professional fangirl, student of the great Elizaveta Héderváry, and co-founder of yaoilovers(.)net, signing off.

Hasta la pasta!~

* * *

><p><strong>Protective!America. Always amusing.<strong>

**(I have plans for one with protective!England, though … maybe for the next chapter. What do you guys think?)**

**(Oh, and just a note ... Robyn Nightshade is an OC and yaoilovers(.)net doesn't exist. Yup.)**


	7. Rain

_****_**I won NaNoWriMo, so, here, have a little dialogue drabble.**

**Hopefully there will be another update or three this weekend. :)**

* * *

><p><em><strong>THE ARSE<strong>_

_**7. Rain**_

_GRAB!_

"AAH! You bloody wanker, what the bloody hell was that for?"

"I wanted to see how wet it was!~ After all, you've been standing out in the rain for, like, a really long time, haven't you?"

"It's all your bloody fault for being so late, dolt."

"It's not my fault the plane was delayed! And you could've used an umbrella."

"Umbrellas are for wimps."

"If you say so."

"I _do_ say so."

"…"

"Are we going the right way?"

"Why the bloody hell are you asking me?"

"It's _your_ city."

"Oh. Right."

"…"

"Yeah, we're going the right way …"

"Yay!~"

"…"

"Hey, Artie, have you ever been kissed in the rain?"

"That's the most incredibly bloody cliché thing I've ever heard of."

"But have you?"

"… No. AND I DON'T BLOODY PLAN ON IT ANY TIME SOON!"

"Awww.~ Why not?"

"Because … because I'm … gonnakissyouintherainfirst."

"What?"

"I'M GOING TO KISS _YOU_ IN THE RAIN FIRST, DAMN IT!"

"Oh. Okay then!~"

"…"

"What're you waiting for?"

"It stopped raining."

"Well, that's annoying."

"…"

"I never thought I'd say that about rain stopping."

"You do something new every day."

"I thought it was _learn_ something new every day."

"Same thing."

"Hmm … I really did want you to kiss me, though.~"

"Really?"'

"Really really."

"…"

"Okay, fine. Come here."

_AWW!~_


End file.
